Chapter 16

Tensions

Sunnydale – May 21st

Major Sheffield refused the healing spell that Madame LaFusce offered him. "It's only bruises," he'd said. The entire left side of his chest was black and blue from the impact of the stake. Had he not been wearing the body armor, he would have been impaled on the stick. While he wouldn't have turned to dust like a vampire, he would've been just as dead.

He sat on the kitchen table under the watchful eye of Captain Mac while Baker, who doubled as the team medic, wrapped bandages around his rib cage. They sat silently, except for the occasional query from the medic about the pain or the tautness of the bandages. When he finished tying off the wrap, the medic handed the Major two ibuprofen pills and stood watchful until the patient had taken them. He then carefully packed away his med kit and left the two officers alone.

Sheffield gingerly put his turtleneck back on and then smoothed out his hair. He took an experimental breath or two. Finally, he looked over at the expectant Captain. "Kills?" he asked simply.

"Four, including the target," Mac supplied. "All vampires."

"Cook?" the Major asked.

"I've got him cleaning all the weapons. Twice." Mac was matter-of-fact about the punishment. It was a mild one, and the Major cocked an eyebrow at it. "Did you see the way that thing moved?" Mac supplied by way of explanation. "We're not trained for this. We've never seen an enemy like it. He's bloody fast – a fricking blur. Had he not gotten pinned up against the end of that alleyway, we'd not have had a chance in Hell. Cook was lucky he didn't kill you, but it was not really his fault." Mac stared at the Major. "What the hell are we doing here?"

"Following orders," the Major replied. "Completing our mission." He got up to leave the kitchen.

Mac grabbed the Major's arm. "Nobody goes on a mission like this. We've had no briefing on the creatures. We're not prepared to fight them. We don't understand the mission parameters, and we don't like it one bit." He paused, searching the Major's eyes for some sign of relenting. "I've been dealing with this sort of thing for a long time, and I'm a wee bit over my head already. The others have never seen anything like it. The men deserve better, do they not?"

Sheffield's eyes hardened in response. "Take your hand away, Captain, or I'll have you up on charges." Mac removed his hand from his commander's arm. Sheffield simply turned and walked out the door.

Mac left the kitchen and sought out Johnson. Looking carefully about, he made sure no one else was around. "Johnson, I need a wee favor."

Johnson nodded, smiling. "Sure Mac, anything."

"You still have a cousin in command, right? Well, I need to know where our orders came from. You know, who issued them." Mac looked about again.

"She doesn't have that kind of clearance, Mac," Johnson said. "She doesn't even know our unit exists. She thinks I'm standing guard at some national memorial." Mac shook his head. "Why not just ask the Major?" Johnson asked.

Mac's eyes bored into Johnson. "Whatever you do, lad, that's the one thing you canna do. The Major is not to hear a whisper of this, you understand? Now do what you can, but not a word of it to anyone else. Clear?" He held the gaze until Johnson nodded.

"Mac, what's this all about?" he asked quietly. It was clear that he was disturbed by the night's events.

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Mac replied before walking off.

* * *

Buffy stood behind the police line gazing down the alley. At the end, hung up like so much laundry, was Spike's jacket. Buffy recognized it instantly. The missing button on the left cuff; the scuff mark on the shoulder; the torn spot in the lining. It was Spike's all right – there was no question about that. It was pinned to the barrels by a huge wooden stake that was embedded at least three inches into the barrel. It punctured the jacket exactly heart high.

Giles' hand rested on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Somehow she'd been able to hold back the tears until then. But the gentle reassurance of her mentor let the flood gates open. Tears flowed freely down her face at that.

It was odd – how much they all disliked Spike. Yet here they were, upset over his death. In truth, a large portion of that was what it meant for them. Their enemy was succeeding. Their enemy was getting to them, piece by piece. Like a lopsided chess game, they were being steadily outmaneuvered. They were becoming trapped.

But there was something else there, as well. Spike was one of them, now. For good or for bad, he was a member of the gang. Was being the operative word. They had lost one of their own.

Spike wasn't the first. Giles had suffered that hurt when he'd lost Jenny Calendar to Angelus – the evil form of the vampire Angel. That had been nearly more than they could bear. Spike was only the second, though. There would, undoubtedly, be more through the years. Buffy prayed she never got used to the idea.

"How's your place?" she asked quietly, not taking her eyes off the tableau before her.

"Not bad, actually. The living room had the most damage." Giles replied. "The police think it was a drug related break-in." He paused, gripping Buffy's shoulder. "Buffy, they had automatic weapons. Not even a Slayer can dodge that kind of bullet spray." He paused again, waiting for his words to register.

"I'll be careful," she said finally.

"I think we should reconsider this," Giles began, but Buffy's shaking head stopped him.

"No Giles," she said, and then finally turned her attention to him. "We have to take the fight to them. No more waiting around. We have to change the momentum of this thing."

"I agree," he said, shaking his head. "Unfortunately," he added. "I just wish there was another way." Buffy embraced him, and he held her for a long time.

A clearing throat brought them back, and they turned to see Xander parked next to them. His truck was running, and Buffy noticed a pair of duffle bags in the back. He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Willow says we're scrunched for time. If we're going to do this, we better get going now."

Buffy looked up at Giles. "You'll take care of Mom and Dawn? Since the surgery, Mom has been … well, just keep an eye on them, okay?"

"I'll take care of them, I promise," he replied. "You take care of yourself."

"I will," Buffy replied. She hopped into the truck. "How far?"

"We'll hit San Francisco by morning," Xander replied. "We'll catch some shut eye, case the place, and then hit it tomorrow night. Then we'll need to get back here if we're going to have any hope of getting set-up to take on the congressman when he arrives."

"Got it," she said. She absently wiped the last few tears from her eyes. "Let's go." Xander's truck roared off into the night.

* * *

Across the ocean, the Creator of the Circle sipped tea from a china cup. His eyes glanced down to the parchment at his elbow. It was the second status report of the day, and he was very pleased with its contents. He'd have to discipline the Seventh Speaker for failing to kill the vampire the first time, but it was done now. She had been wise to wait until it had been accomplished to tell him; wiser still that she had managed it so quickly.

He had grown suspicious when she did not explicitly state in her earlier report that the objective had been reached. But he was one to give certain latitudes to those who had proven themselves effective in his pursuits. Had she not provided confirmation of the vampire's death tomorrow, he would've been forced to probe on his own. Such questioning can be painful for the person being questioned. He found himself mildly disappointed that the chance had been taken from him.

Shifting his eyes, he observed the man sitting across from him. The Brigadier-General was all spit, polish, and ribbons. He took his tea with an unnatural stiffness. It was clear that the man took his soldiering to heart, that he let it control every aspect of his life. Ever one for protocol, the Brigadier had left his aide standing by the door at parade rest, not even offering the man any tea.

The Creator of the Circle liked this man. He understood the role of power, and of underlings. He understood and was willing to do whatever was necessary to reach his goals. That the Brigadier's goals and the Creator's goals should be so intertwined was a stroke of good fortune. Already the association was proving most fruitful.

"The team you provided us is proving most useful," the Creator said graciously. "One of our more problematic objectives has already been achieved." He nodded and smiled pleasantly at the thought.

The Brigadier, for his part, simply snorted in acceptance of the compliment. "That's why I provided them," he said, his speech thick like a beefsteak. "There's few who can operate in hostile country the way they do. I'm sure you'll find them quite satisfactory." He nodded a quick, clipped nod for emphasis.

"Indeed," the Creator replied.

The Brigadier put his teacup down and held his hand out to the side. His aide instantly snapped to and placed a black folder in the outstretched hand. The Brigadier made an elaborate show of perusing the documents, and then looked up at the Creator as if he'd gotten so involved in his task that he'd forgotten the old man was sitting there. "Now then," the Brigadier began, and then cleared his throat. "When can we expect to see the subject you promised us?"

The Creator set his teacup down and placed his chin in his fist. He made a great show of contemplating the Brigadier's question. In truth, he was calculating how much the man was worth. The Brigadier was able to field resources that the Creator of the Circle could only vaguely dream of. He was, however, utterly pretentious. The Creator had not lived fifty lifetimes to be snorted at by such a mortal as this. The Brigadier, though necessary, was an affront to the Creator's existence. He should be bowing to me, the Creator thought. He should be prostrate before me, invoking me as a god. Instead, he slowly said, "A week … perhaps ten days." He shrugged exaggeratedly. "It is enough to know that she will surely be ours soon enough."

The Brigadier snorted again. "Soon enough, eh?" He hardened his gaze at the frail looking old man before him. "Just see that you deliver, Mr. Aries. Just see that you do." He stood abruptly, a gesture that sent the aide into a blur of activity. In seconds, the file was retrieved and stowed in the briefcase, the Brigadier's overcoat put on, and his hat placed in his hand.

The Brigadier contemplated the gold braid on the cap for a long moment, and then looked over at the Creator. "I thank you for tea, Mr. Aries. I'll let myself out." Not waiting for a reply, he placed the cap on his head and exited the door, his aide scrambling to get it open in time.

A long silence hung in the room upon his leaving. The Creator took another sip of tea. Exhaling slowly, he flicked his wrist and one corner of the room began to shimmer. In a moment, his erstwhile companion – the Fourth Speaker – appeared, materializing as if from thin air.

"You heard all?" the Creator asked, knowing full well that he had.

"Yes," replied the Fourth Speaker. "He is dangerous," he said after a moment's hesitation. It was a dangerous game to venture opinions in front of the Creator.

"Not as much as he thinks he is," the Creator replied. "He will learn the truth soon enough. And then he will either be controlled … or eliminated."

"As you say, my Creator," the Fourth Speaker replied.